(I am a customer in a store known for selling not only music-related items but pop culture merchandise. I’m in line behind two older women, roughly 60-something in age each, and they’ve just finished finding some merchandise for one lady’s granddaughter who is a fan of a popular television show and specifically one of the main characters. The cashier has rung up her purchase, and asks if she would like to have a “member” card, which is not necessary to purchase anything in the store, but can earn you discounts and coupons based on points you rack up. The woman agrees and they begin filling in the form.)

Cashier: “Name?”

Woman:*provides full name, spelling both first and last out*

Cashier: “Phone number?”

Woman:*instantly irate* “Why would you need that?”

Cashier: “Um… Okay, we’ll skip that for the moment. Mailing address?”

Woman:*loudly and angrily* “Why do you need that? I’m not giving you that!”

Cashier: “It’s to mail you coupons.”

Woman: “I don’t want coupons!”

(Even though there’s loud rock music playing in the store, everyone by now can hear this woman shrieking at the young cashier. People are staring.)

Cashier: “Well, what about an email address?”

Woman: “I don’t have an email!”

Cashier: “Last question… birth date?”

Woman:*finally blowing her top and literally screaming at the cashier* “WHY WOULD YOU NEED TO KNOW THAT?! That’s personal!”

Cashier: “Ma’am, it’s so we can send you a birthday coupon.”

Woman: “Well, I don’t want a birthday coupon! Honestly, this card sounds like a scam with all these questions. You know what? I won’t ever buy anything from here again!”

(She takes the items from the counter and throws them up in the air like confetti, and she and her friend both storm out in a huff. Another employee gathers the fallen items and silently goes to put them back. I step forward with my lone purchase — a small Captain America toy — and place my membership card on the counter with the toy.)

Cashier:*giving me a thankful smile* “I see you already have our card, so I don’t need to ask you.”

Me:*tapping the toy* “Cap says, ‘Watch your temper!’”

(I mean, honestly, it wasn’t mandatory. I’m sorry to that woman’s granddaughter who was not going to get her merchandise!)

(I was born and raised in the midwest, but moved south for college, and adapted to the local quirks quickly, including door-holding. If there is someone within fifteen seconds of the door, you will hold it for them and you will hold the door until no one is within that distance, regardless of holder/holdee gender combination. However, some guys will not walk through doors held by women, instead insisting on taking the door in an awkward handoff, even if there are fifteen people behind them.)

Me:*grabs door and holds it open after class gets out*

Classmate:*who is a foot taller and a good 150 pounds heavier than me* “Oh, miss, let me get the door for you.”

(Guns come with different size barrels, or calibers. You have to buy the right size bullet for your gun’s dimensions in order to fire it. I am waiting for an associate to check something for me when the shop phone rings. Another associate picks it up, and everyone in earshot overhears his side of the conversation.)

Associate:*after listening for a moment* “No, sir, I apologize, but we do not accept returns on ammunition.” *pause* “I understand, but we can’t resell it because we can’t guarantee what was done to it after it left the shop.” *pause* “Right. Yes, sir, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience. But if you’d like to come back in, we can help you find the right kind.”

(There is another pause and then he hangs up.)

Associate:*to coworker* “Guy didn’t check which caliber he needed before he bought his ammo. He’s coming back, just a heads up.”

(The associate helping me came back and we went to another part of the store together. Once I finished, I passed back by the front counter, where a customer was arguing with the associate over returning the ammo he had purchased earlier in the day. The poor associate was trying to explain the store policy — pretty much the same as everywhere you could buy ammo — while the customer yelled at him. The kicker? When I went to push open the only entrance and exit door, I was face to face with a three-foot stop sign sticker that said, “All ammo sales are final!” in giant letters!)